I Call This Weird
by yamikinoko
Summary: .Miles x Ema. Miles Edgeworth is the consummate gentleman. He does not do inappropriate things. Yet here he is.


**Disclaimer**: _I do not own __**Phoenix Wright**__. It is the property of __**Capcom**__; I merely borrow the characters for my own amusement.

* * *

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**I Call This Weird**

It is a rather odd moment to be having an epiphany, with the curve of a phone cradled between his ear and shoulder, and the remains of what used to be a very expensive teacup lying in pieces on the floor.

_This is strange_, he thinks, in a poor attempt to give some order to his thoughts, but that doesn't seem quite accurate. _This is quite peculiar_, he tries again, which is better, but still not quite there.

"This is so_ weird_."

Which, despite his abhorrence for colloquial mannerisms, seems to aptly delineate his current emotions and state of mind.

"Huh?" she says from the other end.

* * *

It would be fairly safe to say that the myriad events which lead to this particular set of circumstances can be summed up in a few notable events, the first of these being the first time he unexpectedly sees Chief Prosecutor Skye's younger sister in a little coffee shop just across the street from the courthouse he is studying at.

_Ema_, his typically infallible memory supplies for him, _Ema Skye_.

She is sitting alone at a table for two, a cup of coffee and a bag of snacks on hand as she pores over what is presumably a textbook. The sedate scene is so incongruous with the energetic young girl he once knew that he stays for a few moments longer to look (no more, as that would be inappropriate).

Then he remembers that he has a meeting with the district court judge in exactly forty-eight minutes, so he focuses his attention and leaves to procure his afternoon meal. Young Miss Skye is soon pushed to the back of his head, as he has more pressing matters to attend to the rest of the day.

* * *

The next time he sees her is at the same coffee shop, except this time, he is the one seated alone at a table with a tea and some light reading (only about fifty pounds and some fifteen-hundred pages). It is a beautiful, sunny day outside, bright enough to be cheerful, but not glaringly, so as to make reading painful. A light breeze completes the perfection of the day, and is enough to entice even Miles Edgeworth from the stuffy old library.

It really is a perfectly suitable environment for studying outside, rather peaceful actually, until—

"Mr. Edgeworth?"

He looks up to see Miss Skye standing by his table, a hand to her mouth in surprise, "Mr. Edgeworth, it is you!" Her lips turn upwards into a sunny smile, "I knew I couldn't mistake that suit!"

"Miss Skye," he says in greeting, and stands, remembering his manners, "Please, sit." He gestures to the seat across from him and Miss Skye takes it,

"What are you doing in England, Mr. Edgeworth?" she asks, with an enthusiasm that he usually sees in particularly young puppies, or Detective Gumshoe. Shaking off all thoughts of his former, scruffy subordinate, he sits as well, saying almost distractedly,

"Can I get you anything? Or…" he trails off as she shakes her head emphatically and continues to stare at him with expectant, shining eyes. Ah, yes, she had asked him a question.

"I am currently conducting research on European judicial systems," he explains, and Miss Skye nods in acknowledgement several times, _yes, yes, please go on_.

"And… I will be studying here for the next six months, at least," Miles finishes, though he is a bit perplexed as to what else she expects him to elaborate on. After a moment of (slightly awkward) silence as he contemplates her rapt expression, he adds, "And what of you, Miss Skye? I presume you are attending school nearby…?"

"Yes, I am!" she declares with a satisfied grin, and drops the book in her arms on the table, where it makes a loud thump, "I'm studying forensic science!"

Indeed, the title of her rather cumbersome textbook reads, "Forensics in the 21st Century," in bold blocked letters. Miss Skye brushes off the cover with an oddly fond hand, and with a slightly dreamy look sighs, "Science is so amazing, isn't it?"

Miles Edgeworth, renowned prosecutor and terror of criminals everywhere, is befuddled for the second time in a short ten minutes. "I cannot say that I have ever considered the matter at length," he says finally, considering it to be the safest answer to give.

Though logical, this is, of course, an incorrect assumption.

"What?" Miss Skye exclaims, shooting to her feet and slamming her hands down on the table in a resounding -_smack!_- that would have done Wright proud. And if that isn't enough, the following indignant outburst manages to attract the attention of the street's many pedestrians, "How can you not think about science, Mr. Edgeworth? It's the most fascinating subject ever known to man! Scientifically speaking, 100% of the world's population experience science at work in some way every day of their lives! Science is everywhere!"

There is a pause as he resists the urge to meet the gaze of several pairs staring eyes. He is also searching for the most diplomatic answer in his admittedly vast disposal at the same time, but that is something that no one would be able to force him to admit in a court of law.

"Crazy girl," some of the mutters say.

"What a jerk," say the others, presumably directed at him. It is marginally disconcerting how many comments he hears that follow along that vein.

He is opening his mouth to speak when Miss Skye collapses back into her seat with a muffled -_thump_- and graces him with a sheepish and slightly panicked smile,

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Edgeworth—I didn't mean to be so rude." There is a light flush of embarrassment across the bridge of her nose that is darkening and spreading with each passing second that he says nothing. She can't quite seem to meet his eye, and despite the overall oddity of the situation, he has to fight to hold back an amused smile.

"On the contrary, Miss Skye, I ought to apologize for my inattention to such an apparently crucial subject. Perhaps you could enlighten me?"

Though the words sound rather contrived, even to one from whom they came, the overwhelmingly large, grateful smile on her face lets him know that she appreciated the effort.

And then she launches without further ado into an extended lecture on the importance of science in everyday life (complete with detailed examples) after which she diverged into a show-and-tell of various chemicals utilized in forensic investigation. (How she managed to fit that many containers in her little messenger bag, he would never know.)

Still, Miss Skye, despite the endless inundation of words, is so engaged with her topic of discussion that he cannot help but be drawn in as well.

Miles is not bored, as he sits at a small table-for-two, listening to the respective merits of Luminol fluid and aluminum powder.

(There is even a soft smile about his lips, though if anyone were to point out that particular fact, they would quickly find themselves sued for slander. Those kinds of smiles are quite inappropriate in an acquaintance such as theirs.)

* * *

"Mr. Edgeworth, did I do this problem right? The answer doesn't look quite right."

_When did this happen?_ he wonders, as he pushes against his desk. His chair rolls to the left so that he can better see the paper that Miss Skye obligingly angles towards him. _How did one chance meeting turn into daily meals, daily outings, daily study sessions? Nothing inappropriate_,_ of _course, he amends in his mind quickly, because they are simply meeting as tutor and student, as mentor and ward.

(He did work for her sister, after all, and it is only proper that he look after her in the Chief Prosecutor's stead.)

Miles scans the messily scribbled numbers on the paper quickly, noting with satisfaction that, after nearly three months of repeated reminders, Miss Skye's work has finally managed to organize itself (for the most part) on the page. Math is simply another form of logic after all, and it is not entirely a difficult task to teach her what he is best at.

"This is just great," she mumbles. He glances up to see a distinctive pout on her face, and her trademark white-framed, pink glasses is propped up on her nose, where it always rests when she is prepping herself for a science experiment, or trying to re-motivate herself.

"What is?" he asks casually.

"Studying for a test not even an hour before my birthday," she grumbles.

"Pencil please," he inserts quietly, holding out his hand. She passes one to him without pausing in her complaint,

"You'd think that since science is such a totally awesome subject, anything associated with it would be too, but nooo…" The dragged-out word further exaggerates her pout, and when he raises his eyes from the paper again, he immediately lowers them because he is _most definitely_ not looking at her lips. That would be inappropriate.

(Miles Edgeworth does not _do_ inappropriate.)

Instead, he makes a few quick marks on the paper and indicates that she should move closer to look at the page. She does so with another muttered grumble. The pout is still present on her lips, not that he notices.

"You failed to convert your units from Fahrenheit to Celsius here," he indicates a circle on the page with the eraser-end of the pencil, "And thus when you plug this value into the equation, you end with a much higher answer than you ought to have. Also, here, when your given is in grams and your final answer must be in liters, you must…?"

She only sighed despondently.

"You must…?" he prompted gently once more.

"Convert it…"

"Correct. Avogadro's number is…?"

At this, she brightened a bit, "Six-point-oh-two-two to the twenty-third!"

"Correct," there is a faint smile on his face as he passes the sheet of paper back to her and stands, "Let me know when you finish the problem. I'll be in the kitchen."

* * *

Ema watches as he makes his way to the kitchen, and continues even after he has disappeared from the doorway. She sighs once more. It isn't as though she _wants_ to act like a petulant child in front of him, but if she doesn't, she's frighteningly likely to stare dreamily at his focused expression all night long.

_I mean, it sucks to have to study all night long, especially the day before my birthday. _Ema rolls her eyes and pulls her calculator over to punch in the numbers of the equation once more. _Oh, who am I kidding… I gotta get over this silly crush sometime soon._

A little grumpily, she scrawls the new answer at the bottom of the worksheet and underlines it twice. _Too bad he's too cool and mature to pay attention to someone like me. Maybe I oughtta…_

Furrowing her brow, she sniffs the air cautiously. _Smoke?_

"Mr. Edgeworth…?" she calls.

"Have you finished your problem, Miss Skye?" he asks, voice fainter from the kitchen.

"Yes, Mr. Edgeworth, but—"

"And what answer have you gotten?"

"26.4 liters, but Mr. Edgeworth, do you smell smoke?"

"Perhaps, Miss Skye. Pay it no mind. And the second half of your answer?"

"36 degrees Celsius. You know, Mr. Edgeworth, scientifically speaking, if you smell smoke, you should always investigate the cause—"

"Very well, Miss Skye. I believe that the smell is coming from somewhere within the kitchen. Would you assist me in searching for the source?"

Ema immediately hops to her feet and makes for the kitchen, from where it does seem the smell of smoke is originating, "Sure. Coming, Mr. Edgeworth."

* * *

Though the expression on his face cannot be accurately described as a scowl, but it is remarkably close as Miles contemplates the napkin that had caught on fire when he had attempted to light the first candle from the stove.

"Mr. Edgeworth—you should check the stove, or the oven first—"

He looks up just as her mouth drops open in an "o" of surprise, and her hand unconsciously goes up to cover it in a movement that he had always associated with the adjective "adorable." He shakes off that particular (dangerous) thought and gestures towards the cake on the table, "Happy birthday, Miss Skye. Perhaps this will help motivate you to study tonight."

"I— Mr. Edgeworth, you— I don't—I don't know what to say."

He pulls a chair back from the table for her with a vague smile, "It is yet half an hour until your birthday, but perhaps you will forgive me for celebrating it early?"

She nods creakily as she sits down, ungainly in her surprise in the proffered seat. He clears his throat,

"Ah… I believe I shall spare you the discomfort of having to hear me sing. I believe the next thing to do is for you to… make a wish?"

Miss Skye appears to stare at the candles and the cake for a long moment, so long that he is about to prompt again when she looks back up at him with an inscrutable expression.

_This is it._

The next thing he registers is her lips pressed fervently (but sloppily) against his, clumsy with inexperience, but with such force that he stumbles backwards until he hits the wall. And God help him, he has a girl seven years younger than him in his arms, and he _likes it_.

"Miss Skye, what—" he tries to say when he feels small hands ducking beneath his suit jacket, but maybe that's just his imagination, because for some reason he can't quite fathom nor explain, his mouth is too much otherwise engaged to form coherent words. The law-abiding prosecutor in him is complaining quite loudly, about how inappropriate and _very illegal_ this all was, but as it happens…

"Miss Skye, wait— you—we can't—the age of consent…"

"Is sixteen in Britain," she says, and continues what she is doing, which is currently exploring what is really underneath the cravat and magenta suit. It really should not be this hard to find the breath to speak, but—

"Miss Skye—"

"I'm basically an adult—half an hour isn't going to change anything." If anything, the slightly insecure and pleading note to her voice makes it even harder for him to protest and still he tries—

"But Miss Skye—"

"Ema," here she pauses to look him in the eye, "And I really, really, really like you."

Which really isn't a point, because he was kind of sure he feels the same way, but this definitely falls under the category of "inappropriate", which he really _doesn't do_…

"You're thinking too much, Mr. Edgeworth… Miles."

And what is he supposed to say to that?

"Ema," he says, and gives in.

* * *

"Miles?" her voice says from the other end, beginning to sound a bit worried. "Are you still there?"

He clears his throat perfunctorily, then once more, because he can, "Yes… I'm still here. You, ah—are you—are you sure?"

_How do you feel about kids?_

"Miles Edgeworth! Scientifically speaking, it is very hard to mistake something like this! Of course I'm sure!"

"Sometimes, I think I prefer the times when you used to call me Mr. Edgeworth," he mumbles, and makes for his bedroom, skirting the mess of shattered china on the floor. It isn't important.

_How do you feel about kids, say, sometime in the near future?_

"What was that?"

"I said, don't move around too much, and rest as much as you can."

A disbelieving "Uh-huh," then a pause, "What is that sound?"

Miles tosses the rest of his belongings into the suitcase and slams the lid shut with a sharp -_clack_- that echoes throughout the spacious hotel room, "What sound?"

"That sound like… like things are falling. Is everything okay over there?"

"Certainly," he transfers the cellphone to his left hand to tug open the door. It hits the wall with a resounding -_boom_-.

"Okay, what is going on over there?"

"Nothing of great concern. Which is why I will be seeing you in approximately twelve hours."

"What? Miles, wait—_what_?"

_How do you feel about kids in, say, about seven and a half months?_

_Yes_, he thinks, _This is certainly _very weird.

But he wouldn't trade it for the world.


End file.
